


But Give Me Wings Like Noah's Dove

by regshoe



Category: Cargill - King Creosote (Song)
Genre: Fishing, Injury, M/M, Scotland, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:41:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28032564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/regshoe/pseuds/regshoe
Summary: The fortunes of a sailor.
Relationships: Cargill/Singer (Cargill - King Creosote)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 12
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	But Give Me Wings Like Noah's Dove

**Author's Note:**

  * For [peevee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/peevee/gifts).



> I've really fallen in love with this song—thank you for introducing me to it, and I hope you enjoy my take on it!
> 
> Many thanks to Hyarrowen for beta reading and contributing sailing expertise. Remaining errors are my own. :)

A fine, misty rain was falling over the North Sea. Here, about five miles out from the coast of Angus, the raindrops blew gently over the surface of the water in a light easterly breeze, and all round the little fleet of fishing-boats nothing could be seen but grey sea and grey sky. It was deceptively wet, and the young man leaning upon the tiller of the foremost boat pushed a clinging lock of black hair out of his eyes as he glanced up into the distance. A kittiwake flew past the boat and wheeled round, flashing white beneath its grey wings as it turned. Ordinarily the sight would have been a joy to John Cargill, who loved the things of the sea and would often laugh to see the birds following in the boat's wake after a share of its catch; but not now. At this moment he was impatient to be away from it.

John turned back towards the west, following the motion of the boat. They would reach the shore soon; but, in this weather, it would take a deal longer than usual before the dear red sandstone cliffs came into view ahead. It would also be longer before the people on shore could see the boats coming in, and that thought was unbearable—the idea that even a few moments more would pass before he returned to the one amongst them who was most in his thoughts. But, then, he had always had to be patient...

* * *

He could not have said just when he first loved Andrew. There had never been one great moment of realisation; perhaps it had simply grown out of what was always with him. They had played together as children, racing down the path to the beach after school, sitting on the harbour wall together eating bread and cheese or throwing stones into the water, exploring (in defiance of parental prohibition) the caves which cut into the cliffs a little further along the shore. Both their fathers had been fishermen, as were most of the men of that little village perched above the red cliffs, and naturally they expected to grow up to the same work. In the nineteen-hundreds such places were still isolated and insular enough that no other life was imaginable; and, in the nineteen-hundreds, none of them could think that the rhythms of that old life would ever change.

'Jamie told me,' said John on one such day—Jamie was one of his numerous cousins, ten years older than him and therefore a great authority—'that he once saw a sea-monster out there. It was twice as long as the _North Star_ , he said, and it had a great big mouth full of teeth.' They were sitting on the rocks of the beach, idly gazing out towards the sea upon which, earlier that day, the fleet had departed. Meg and Annie, Andrew's two sisters, were paddling among the rocks of the shoreline a little distance away.

Andrew regarded him sceptically. 'He's telling fibs,' was his verdict. 'There's no such thing as sea-monsters.'

John shielded his eyes with one hand against the glare of the sun (the sun was always bright, glittering upon a perfect blue sea, in such memories). 'Well, maybe,' he admitted. 'But one day we'll go out there and see for ourselves. Then we can prove him wrong.'

'Of course we will, one day.'

This attitude was very like Andrew. He was a quietly determined child, not one to believe things just as they were told him (which habit caused some annoyance to the school-teacher), but quite steady in his own interests. He was learning to play the fiddle from old Rob Swankie, the village's best musician (and, in his young pupil's opinion, a better teacher than had the school). As far as John was concerned his friend could do anything he set his mind to.

And, in time, they did go to sea. They went as hired hands at first, while they carefully saved up their wages to buy their own shares of the boats—for the fifteen or so boats of the village were all owned in shares by the men who sailed them, and it was every young lad's first ambition to achieve this place for himself. Those were bright days, brave and full of hope. They learnt the patterns of the fishermen's year, and it was a fine year they had for it—fishing inshore for haddock, making occasional journeys out to get bait for the lines, going further out for herring for what were the most profitable six weeks of the summer. Then back to the harbour, where the women would unload the catch, smoke the fish or put them out to dry, and pack them into the creels to carry to the market in Arbroath. John got on well in the work, and enjoyed it. Casting the nets and lines, stowing the catch, or hauling up the jib, keeping the boat steady on her course—such work was a joy to him, and the satisfaction of returning home with a fine catch, through the cold of the wind and the spray of the water, was a pleasure.

And the care and industriousness with which he approached the work did not go unnoticed; the owners of the boat on which he worked were pleased with him, and soon he had more challenging and more important tasks to take charge of.

'You know, this success is all thanks to you, if what they're saying is anything to go by,' said Andrew one afternoon, as they stood watching an especially good catch of herring laid out to dry upon the rocks of the beach. 'You'll be the talk of the village if you keep on like this, Cargill.' His blue eyes were shining; he always called John by his surname when he was teasing him.

John muttered something about silly exaggerations and turned away, to laughter from his friend. But things between them were not all so silly as that; for he had begun to be aware that his feelings for Andrew were not kept within the limits they ought to have been. He supposed, at first, that it was not a serious thing. Then he tried to persuade himself that it would not be a lasting one: eventually, of course, he would choose some one of the village lassies who came down to meet the boats at the quay, and settle down to a proper and regular life—and so, of course, would Andrew. But then, glancing up from such a gloomy thought as this, he would see Andrew standing facing into the wind which played with his fair hair, a keen look on his face as though he would challenge it; or his strong arms hauling the nets in, the sleeves of his gansey rolled up above the elbows; or Andrew, whatever he was doing, would turn and smile suddenly at him—like sunlight through the clouds on a grey day, his smiles were... 

So, in short, John was quite hopeless about him. Andrew, however, did not seem to notice anything wrong; at least, he acted towards his friend more or less as he always had done, and so things continued well enough for a while. The rhythms of the year came round again, familiar now, and still life went on as it always had done.

But by now it was early in the summer of 1914, and they were all coming to the end of that 'always'.

The outbreak of war put an abrupt halt to much of the fishing along the east coast of Scotland. The small sailing boats of their village escaped being requisitioned, as many of the larger trawlers and steam drifters were, for they were needed more in keeping up the supply of fish. But, between the new dangers added to those they already faced (and, as if they had not enough to worry about, the storms that autumn were worse than usual) and the Admiralty orders which confined them to fishing within sight of the coast and during daylight hours, life was not easy. It was not without its compensations, of course; the reduced supply of fish naturally meant better prices, and on more than one occasion their haddock sold for as much as forty shillings a box.

More than a handful of the men enlisted as soon as they were able, though most of them were content to do their part for the war effort by staying at their work and keeping Britain supplied with fish. Conscription brought even these into the Royal Naval Reserve, though still at first they were kept where they were, while the Admiralty and the Fishery Board made the precise and delicate calculations of how many men they could afford to take from their work. But their turn came at last. In the summer of 1916 a dozen or so of the lads of the village were called up for service; it was to John a strange mixture of anxiety and relief to have this certainty at last—and to learn that he and Andrew would both be among them.

The night before they left was clear in John's memory, slightly unreal as it always seemed. All the preparations had been made—their things were packed, and they were to go to meet the train at Arbroath station in the morning—and it was only left to wait. They gathered together—John's cousin Jamie, who was one of those leaving, and his older brother Sandy, who was not; Meg rushing to finish the last few rows of a scarf she was knitting for Andrew to take with him; Andrew himself with his fiddle—to talk and sing and tell stories. Andrew played and sang 'All Things Are Quite Silent' (how far this reflected his own feelings, it was difficult to tell); and then, making a joke of this rather morbid choice, said he would find some more cheerful songs to follow it—which he did. John made Sandy promise to 'look after Mam for me.'

And then they left.

*

She was, to all appearances, an ordinary topsail schooner of the sort which were sometimes seen (even in these modern days) going back and forth in this part of the English Channel: a hundred feet from stem to stern, with much-mended white sails and a recently fitted motor. She was sailing under Swedish colours, perhaps carrying a load of timber from that neutral country, or perhaps coal or some other useful cargo. But appearances can be deceiving.

The German submarines had for some time been prowling the seas all about Britain, attacking fishing boats and merchant ships, making the waters perilous and seriously threatening the country's supplies of vital goods. To answer this threat the Navy had formed a scheme to disguise their own armed boats as such innocent craft as the submarines went after, luring them in by presenting an ideal target before suddenly opening fire upon them. Thus this little ship, originally the merchant vessel _Penryn_ , had been taken from her peacetime work and her name changed (as a disguise, and to suit her spurious nationality) to _Svartsjö_. Concealed about the decks were two twelve-pounder guns and a team of Navy gunners, along with a selection of smaller weapons for use by the rest of the crew. 

Sailing-ships, anachronistic as they seemed to some high up in the Navy, were preferred for this work, because they could cruise out at sea in search of submarines for many weeks on end, whereas the steamers were obliged to make frequent trips back to port for fuel. The chief difficulty was in finding sufficient men in the R.N.R. with experience of sailing; and so the men on board this ship had been chosen from amongst the crews of the sailing-boats from some little remote fishing villages up in Scotland.

They had set sail from Falmouth two weeks ago, and ever since had been going back and forth, watching the real merchant ships—which went safely about their work, for now—and waiting for their prey. It was horribly nervous work—'a very tense boredom', as Andrew put it, and John could not but agree. Although the _Svartsjö_ was larger than the little boats back at home, the voyages were much longer than any they had made before, and so much time spent out on the water, confined to a space not so very large, waiting for an enemy who might appear at any moment or elude them for months, told on all their nerves.

Then, about three o'clock in the afternoon of one mild, grey day, the men on watch called out that they had sighted the periscope of a submarine, moving towards them.

Now their real work began, a carefully ordered confusion. The gunners moved into position behind the false deckhouse which concealed their weapons; half the remaining crew, and the ship's commander, similarly hid themselves, while the rest made a show of running about in panic and lowering the boat ready to abandon ship.

From his position behind a screen, repeating-rifle held ready, John could see nothing of the submarine's approach; but he saw the first shell go over the false deckhouse, and heard it explode above the water some yards on the ship's far side. A few moments later a shock went through the deck beneath him; the second shell had struck the waterline near the stern. On board all was yet still; the commander, where he lay concealed, remained silent. The submarine must be moving closer, but was not yet close enough. John glanced over towards Andrew, similarly hidden in his position down near the stern; Andrew smiled at him briefly and rather grimly, then turned back to the screen before him and the invisible enemy beyond it.

For ten awful minutes they waited, while the shouts of the 'panic party' in the ship's boat no longer had to be greatly feigned. But this was the crucial moment: the ship apparently abandoned, a defenceless target, and the submarine close enough for the ship's guns to bear upon it—

The commander shouted an order. Above them the Swedish flag came down and the White Ensign went up; the screens were lowered, and the guns opened fire.

The submarine was now revealed to John's view: a formidable beast, easily twice the length of the ship and fearsomely armed. The gunners' first shot went wide, splashing into the water a few yards behind the submarine, and the enemy, no matter how surprised they were by the revelation of the ship's identity, were not slow in taking the opportunity this afforded them. What had, a few short minutes ago, been a calm sea now blazed into a storm of fire on both sides. The air was sharp with salt spray and gunpowder. John aimed his own weapon at the conning-tower hatch, where a figure had just disappeared below, and pushed back all other thoughts from his mind. There was a sudden commotion abaft—a shell had found its mark amongst the crew—John forced himself not to turn round, for he could do nothing for them until the enemy was sunk.

But the gunners were having better luck now than they had at first. A shell from the twelve-pounder struck the hull of the submarine; another blew its gun to pieces. More hits to the hull, and then the stricken submarine tilted and began to disappear beneath the sea.

'She is sunk!' called out the commander. 'Cease fire.'

The thing was over more suddenly than it had begun. John did not stop to admire their work—in any case, the sinking submarine was no pleasant sight. A horrible, icy suspicion was in his heart; he rose to his feet and turned to where several of the crew were gathered round the one who had been hit. Before he had taken two paces towards them the suspicion was a certainty—the stricken crewman was Andrew.

A fragment from the explosion had struck him in the left leg, just above the knee. He was slumped against the bulwark, his eyes closed. For a moment John feared worse than that—the wound looked bad enough—but then Andrew opened his eyes and looked at him with a vague smile, and said, 'John... you're still here.'

John had knelt down beside him. 'I'm not going anywhere,' he said, less firmly than he had intended to.

There was no doctor on board this little ship, but they had the basic supplies needed for such emergencies, and one of the other crewmen, calling to John to help him, produced a bandage. 'There are two or three others hurt—not so badly,' he said, when he had fixed the bandage in place. 'I should go and help them—will you keep an eye on him?'

John nodded shortly and turned back to his friend. He took Andrew into his arms and moved him, very carefully, into a more comfortable position. Around them was a constant flurry of activity: besides the wounded crewmen, the _Svartsjö_ herself had taken not a little damage, enough to require a speedy return to shore, and the panic party in the boat had come back on board, bringing with them half a dozen survivors from the doomed submarine, who must be kept under guard. Of these things John was only dimly aware. He stayed by Andrew's side, gripping his hand tightly and willing him to live.

Andrew, clear though the pain was on his own face, was still alert enough to read his friend's thoughts. 'Don't worry so,' he murmured, leaning upwards to meet John's eyes. 'I'm not so easily killed as that, Cargill.'

The little wry grin with which he said that was too much for John. 'You'd better not be,' he whispered. 'You can't— _I love you_...' It was not hard, after all, to let go those things that had been in his heart for such a long time. If there was no more time left to them, he must know... John did not believe he could have done otherwise.

Andrew's fingers tightened round his own. He looked at him with a peculiar expression and said softly, 'I see... that I shall have to live, now—for that. Yes, stay with me...'

The relief of having made that confession—though his conscious mind had scarcely realised the significance of it yet—combined with the recognition that his friend's wound, while serious enough, was not quite so threatening as he had at first feared, and John's mind was lightened. After a while he was able to talk to Andrew quite calmly, describing their success in the battle and the ship's progress towards the Cornish coast, trying to comfort him with these trivialities.

'There's a gull—a herring-gull come to greet us—I'm sure that's good luck, you know. We're almost there...'

Andrew, who was lying with his head on John's shoulder and his eyes once more closed, murmured something unintelligible and smiled.

At last they landed back at Falmouth; the valiant ship was taken in for repairs, and her wounded conveyed to hospital.

After that they saw very little of each other. The hospital discouraged visitors, and in any case John, transferred along with the rest of the crew and their commander to another decoy ship and sent out again, had little opportunity in his scarce hours of freedom on shore to go there. He managed one visit, which at least dispelled what lingering anxiety he had still had for his friend's life; Andrew was able to walk awkwardly on crutches, and seemed quite cheerful, and they sat together in the hospital's garden and talked about the past. But there was a great deal they did not talk about, and it was with very mixed emotions that, a month or so after this brief reunion, John stood beside the doorway of the post office at Falmouth and read the letter left there for him, dated two weeks ago.

 _The doctor tells me now that I can't hope for a full recovery_ , Andrew wrote. _I think I told you how that operation hadn't entirely succeeded—well, it's as they said, I shall keep the leg, but it may not be of much use to me in future. Certainly there shall be no more fighting for me! I'm quite impatient with how they won't tell me everything here—but I believe they have done more or less as much as they can for me, & will not be surprised if I am packed off back to dear Scotland before you return again. If that is so, then I will be sorry not to see you again before I go. Write to me there—and come back to me soon, Cargill._

*

It was more than a year before they saw each other again. For all that he was proud of the work they did on the decoy ship, it was very easily the worst year of John's life. He did write to Andrew, whenever he had the chance; and he wrote also to his mother, telling her about what had happened to Andrew and asking her to look after him when he returned to the village, which he was sure she would do.

In those letters to his friend he still did not speak of his own late confession. He could not write of such a thing openly, of course, but a careful reference to ' _what I said to you after the fight_ ' would not have been difficult to make. But he could not bring himself to do it. He doubted, sometimes, whether Andrew had understood his meaning—or whether he even remembered it, given the state he had been in at the time. His manner when they saw each other at the hospital had been just what it used to be—and they had never been alone there, and could not have said anything more... In any case John felt more definitely, almost superstitiously, that he must see Andrew again before saying anything. It was many a long, empty night that passed on watch out at sea, between the cold black water and the colder bright stars, when he wondered whether they ever would meet again. 

Meanwhile Andrew told him about what his life was now like, back at home. He had been right; he was lame for life, and in consequence he would not be able to go out on the boats again. He described to John how he stayed on shore with the women and the old men, helping with the work in the village and around the quay as far as he could. _It is some comfort to me to be able to write to you about it all_ , he added, _and gives me more to pass the time. But, John, I would much rather you were back here with me._

At last came Armistice and demobilisation. All round the coasts of Britain the Navy's fleets, drifters, minesweepers, transports—and decoy ships—were sent back in to port, and their crews returned to their homes. And on a cold winter's day, beneath a lowering sky which threatened snow at every moment, John walked the last few miles back along the coast-road from Arbroath, with a mixture of feelings which he could scarcely have described.

At last the huddle of low cottages came into view, their slate roofs reflecting back the colour of the sky above them. He turned from the coast-road onto the village street, and after that things happened in rather a rush. Someone shouted his name—it was Annie Smith, Andrew's sister—then there were others gathered round him, and his mother came out of her cottage all in tears... Some time after that Annie, who had slipped away from the happy crowd, returned, bringing someone else with her—and one fear of those long nights, at least, was put to rest.

It was a long time after that—there were so many reunions, so many things to see, so many questions to be asked and answered on all sides—before he and Andrew were alone together. They sat at the table in the neatly arranged front room of John's family's cottage, cups of tea before them, Andrew's wooden crutch leaning against his chair.

'My luck's turned thrawn,' said Andrew with a wry smile, in response to John's first question about how he was getting on. 'You know the sort of thing I told you about—mending the nets, baiting the lines, loading the haddock into the barrels—well, it gets boring enough after a while, busy as you are, when that's all you can do—and that not as well as the others.' He reached out carefully and placed his hand over John's. 'But I've missed you more.'

The thing he hinted at had been between them through all the conversation so far; John felt it almost as a physical barrier. He would not allow it to remain so. 'Andrew,' he said softly, and hesitating only a little, 'do you remember what I said to you on the ship—the last time?'

Andrew's expression changed, and he looked fixedly down at his cup of tea. 'Yes, I do. And I hope,' he said slowly, 'you're not going to try and take it back as foolish words said in a moment of weakness. I don't think I could bear that.'

'Oh, neither could I,' said John, with some feeling. Andrew looked up sharply at that; and, seeing the look in his very blue eyes, John pushed aside his own cup, leaned over the corner of the table and kissed him on the mouth.

'You weren't really doubting me, were you?' said John, some time later.

Andrew looked at him. 'I suppose you never had the chance to say anything more,' he said, 'though I thought I was clear enough in my letters. Well, anyway, I did wonder—you know, there was a deal of time to wonder in...'

'No,' said John softly. 'No, I only wanted to see you...' He had moved his chair round the corner of the table, the better to hold Andrew close to him, and felt warm all through at the way Andrew was leaning against him.

Andrew kissed him again, slowly and softly. 'Well,' he said at length, 'that's all past now.' His eyes were shining. 'I am glad you're back.'

John could hardly make any answer to this, so he said nothing. He did not need to. For that little while, all was right—more right than it ever had been.

Over the following days and weeks John gradually re-established himself in something like the old life. It was a strange time, for reasons which it never seemed possible to make sense of all together. The changes wrought by the war were great, of course. There was an empty space in the crowded gathering of the Cargill family which Jamie, who had gone down bravely with a trawler somewhere in the Mediterranean, would never fill again—and he was not the only one. And the familiar patterns of the life of a pre-war fishing village had been, of necessity, greatly altered during the last four years. But, then, so many things were just the same as he remembered: the dear old cottage with cracked blue paint on its door and white curtains in the bedroom window; the rocks and pebbles of the beach, and the great red cliffs climbing high above them, where the cries of the gulls echoed down from their wheeling flight; Mam, and Sandy, and all the rest of them who had never left. And every day the changes in the daily life of the place were being eroded. More of the men came back to their old homes, to joyful reunions; boats damaged in encounters with the enemy, or simply decaying from long disuse, were repaired and put to sea again. John used the bounty which he had got for his part in sinking the German submarine to purchase that share in a boat, the _Caroline_ , which he had so long desired, and in a short time her crew were ready to set sail once more.

And all the while there was Andrew. He took his part, cheerfully enough, in repairing the boats on which he could no longer go to sea, and the equipment for them; and, besides this, he had kept up his music, which was was not at all impeded by his injury. Fisher-folk will seize any opportunity for a dance, and they had plenty in those days; and Andrew would often oblige his friends and neighbours of an evening by taking up his fiddle and playing the reels for them, alongside his friend and erstwhile teacher Rob Swankie. Or he would sing one of the old ballads, 'Sir James the Rose' or 'The Demon Lover' or some such stirring tale—or sometimes a newer song, for he had expanded his repertoire on his travels during the war, and had a clever way of picking up and imitating or adapting a tune after hearing it only once or a few times. He got a great deal of enjoyment from it—and to listen to him, and to see the careful concentration of his attitude, and the way his eyes shone as he played, was no small pleasure to John.

With so much else happening, and so much still unlike what it had been, the great change in what was between them might have seemed out of place; but, in fact, it never felt other than perfectly right. In odd moments, they took every chance to enjoy the simple happiness which fortune had kept from them both for so long: stealing moments together wherever they could, sneaking off after those dances to convenient dark corners, sitting in the grass above the clifftops and talking for hours together almost as they had used to do in the old days.

The other great change made itself felt here too, of course. On one occasion John thought how much he would like to walk out further along the road above the cliffs, to be longer alone together, before remembering that Andrew could not walk more than a few hundred yards or so, and that not without some difficulty. And, when the _Caroline_ was fully fitted out with sails, nets and all the other necessary things, and John and his fellows were ready to head out to sea once more, they must face in its full significance the fact that Andrew could not follow him there.

That first parting seemed the hardest of all—even though it would not be a long voyage, and, all things considered, would surely be the safest one John had made for several years.

'You needn't worry about me,' he said, trying to keep the lightness in his voice which was not in his heart. 'I've had such good luck lately—it can hardly fail to hold.'

'I don't doubt that,' said Andrew, and kissed him.

He was right, in the end, however; they had nothing to trouble them, and brought back a good catch of haddock. The little fleet were met at the quay by the usual crowd, gathering ready to carry the fish ashore and beginning their preparations, setting great barrels over the old kail-pots which, filled with sawdust and set alight, they used to smoke the fish. John would not forget his first sight of Andrew, who appeared amongst the crowd supported by Meg and Annie, one on each arm. (His sisters were more careful of his weakness than they had to be, he explained later, with a fond amusement not unmixed with frustration; but, though there was a good track down to the beach, it was steep in a few places, and here he really did need their help.) There was not much time to say anything amidst the general bustle of activity; but their reunion, brief as it must be, was a happy one.

*

Those first weeks stretched out into months, then into years, and gradually they both became used to the way of things. Andrew, since he had first returned home, had been living with Meg and her husband in their cottage; but their young and lively family made this somewhat impractical, the houses not being large ones, and so John suggested having him to live with himself and his mother, who were left alone in their own cottage since Sandy was married. This arrangement was a happy one for all involved. 'Such a nice lad he is,' said old Mrs Cargill, of her new companion; 'aye, it's a shame... but we all must bear our misfortunes bravely, and he does that.'

A year or two after John's return there came one of those great storms which occasionally struck along this stretch of coastline. The fishermen were always careful to test the winds before setting out; but this time, by whatever quirk of fate, they judged wrongly. It began quietly enough, with a steady, persistent rain which followed them almost from when they left the quay, and which seemed nothing very much out of the ordinary; but once they were too far out to turn round and get back to harbour and safety in time, then the grey sky darkened above them and the wind rose...

The little fleet were caught between the grand rages of sky and sea; the light beneath the heavy clouds faded as if night were coming on, though it was not much past midday. Aboard the boats, in the rain which was flung down upon them with more violence every moment, they fought to get the sails down before the wind overwhelmed them. John took hold of the mainsail downhaul; the rope was cold and wet through beneath his fingers. For a few moments it pulled smoothly, and the sail began to descend; and then, abruptly, it stopped.

With the same instinct which had kept his hand steady upon his rifle under fire aboard the decoy ship, John forced his mind away from thoughts of how this might end, and examined sail and rope as thoroughly as the wind and rain allowed him. At once the problem was clear.

'What's wrong?' Sandy, at the tiller, had to shout to make himself heard.

'The rope's jammed in the block,' said John. 'I can't move it—'

The downhaul, soaked through by the rain, had swollen up or formed a kink, stuck in place, and would move no further. 

The first great gust of wind took the _Caroline_ then—a wind which the mainsail could not stand for long. They would go over. In desperation John let go of the rope and reached up to take hold of the sail and wrestle it the rest of the way down. He lost his footing, but gained the sail, and it was only a few moments afterwards, stumbling heavily at the foot of the mast, that he heard Sandy and the others shouting to him again in alarm and realised quite how nearly he and the canvas had both gone over the side.

But it was done; the boat had a chance. After those awful first moments it was a matter of enduring—keeping the tiller down and the boat steady, while the rain and wind wasted their fury upon them. All the time they were thinking how disasters such as this had, more than once in the living memory of the village, wrecked boats and drowned men; this one might have done the same. But, in the end, they escaped with their lives. At last they returned to the harbour in the grey washed-out light of the early evening.

And all the while, the same rain had been beating upon the slate roofs of the village, and the same wind roaring along the street and over the cliffs; and those who sheltered beneath those roofs had a great deal to endure, too.

John told the story of their adventure to Andrew a couple of days later. They were sitting in a favourite spot of theirs, above the cliffs to the north of the village, in the shade of a scrub of whin-bushes. The day was warm and bright, with a little breeze blowing through the tall grass and the flowers of the meadowsweet, the whin in golden bloom, and a skylark trilling its song from somewhere high over the fields behind them; it was as though the storm had never been.

'We were very lucky,' he finished, simply.

'It sounds as though it was a bit more than luck for you,' said Andrew, looking at him with a rather sad sort of pride.

John shrugged. 'I did what I had to,' he said. 'What I could. That's all.' The situation was too serious for boasting; and they had been fortunate to have escaped as they did, after all.

Andrew said nothing. He was twisting a stem of grass between the fingers of one hand, and John watched him idly for a while. 'That was,' he said, eventually, 'the worst time I think I've ever had, waiting for you.'

'I'm sorry,' said John. 'I know how it must be—waiting there, when you can't do anything yourself... I understand. It is hard.'

'Waiting there—"wi' the lantern in my hand," is that it? No, you don't understand,' said Andrew, drawing his good leg up to his chin and settling his arms round it. He was smiling as he quoted flippantly from one of his ballads, but it was not entirely a happy smile, and his tone became more heated as he went on, 'You can't possibly know what it's like. Out there you know what you're facing—you can fight—you have so much to _do_... and I've nothing but dread. I could see the boats coming back that evening—you stand at the top of the cliff-path and count the fleet in, and every thought of what you'll have to do if it doesn't come to the right number. No, you don't—don't _presume_ to say you understand that, John.' His voice was softer, now, but terribly sad.

John took this in for a few moments. It occurred to him that Andrew, on the other hand, knew exactly what it was like for him, for he had been out there on the boats himself, and must remember in awful detail just what dangers John was facing every time they parted. The women, at least, were limited to their own imaginations.

'Oh, Andrew,' he said, 'I am sorry. It was a thoughtless thing to say. Of course you—'

But Andrew, whose anger had died away as suddenly as it had appeared, interrupted him. 'No, it's not your fault. I shouldn't have snapped at you so.' He moved towards John and took his hand. 'And I ought to remember which of us was in deadly peril a few days since... well, thank God you're here now,' he finished.

John put his arm round him, and felt him return the embrace. 'Well,' he said, 'you do that, and I shall be more thoughtful in future.'

Andrew was really smiling now. 'Thank you,' he said. 'For both things.'

A while later, when the skylark had ceased its song, and the shadows of the whin-bushes were lengthening before them, Andrew reached down to run his fingers along John's arm—they had not spoken for some time—and murmured, 'You know I love you far too much to resent it—that you can do what I can't, I mean. To see you safely back... I could have fallen at your feet.'

John turned his head where it lay on Andrew's shoulder, and, nudging aside the open neck of his shirt, placed a kiss just above his collarbone. 'You needn't,' he said mildly. 'I prefer this.'

Andrew laughed softly.

'No, I know it,' John went on after a few moments. 'Every time I see you there on the quay... I love you very dearly, too.'

For some moments more they said nothing; then John, who was in a thoughtful and rather reminiscent mood, sat up a little and said, 'When did you first know it was like this with you?'

Andrew looked out at the sea, which was as lovely as it ever was this afternoon, glittering blue and green in shifting patches below the cliffs, perfect and unbroken blue in the distance. His face wore a little, quiet smile. 'Oh, a long time ago,' he said. 'I couldn't imagine it being otherwise... I remember those old days, when we were on the boats together, and I used to watch you at work—I was quite silly over you then. But perhaps it showed!'

John was really surprised to know this, and more than a little amused. 'No,' he said, 'I thought that was only me... Would you ever have said anything?'

'I don't think so—I suppose I never thought you would... well, I'm very glad you did so, at last.'

'It took me long enough,' said John. 'I don't believe I would have done it, either, if it hadn't been for what happened.'

Andrew turned to look at him. 'Is that so?' he said. 'Hmm—so the same thing that keeps us apart now was the only thing to bring us together... ah, well, fortune will play such tricks.'

'No, it doesn't,' said John firmly. 'Keep us apart, I mean. I'll come back to you—I always will. I promise.'

Andrew gripped his hand in silent acknowledgement.

*

A lively spring breeze was blowing along the little street, between the rows of low cottages, and upon it were the familiar scents of salt, fish and fresh tar. It was the afternoon following a return of the fleet, and the quietest time in the routine of the village: the women were gone to Arbroath market with the laden creels upon their backs, and the men were taking their well-earned rest, sitting on their doorsteps or on the low stone wall at the far end of the street, smoking their pipes and gossiping peaceably.

Andrew had got a badly torn net up from the _Caroline_ and was mending it, pulling the pieces of old rope this way and that, tying in new lengths across the rents with sure and steady hands. John, sitting at the other side of the low doorstep, watched him in contentment.

'There—that's that side done,' said Andrew to himself, then, glancing up, caught John's expression. 'What?'

John grinned. 'You're beautiful,' he said. 'That's all.' There was no one else near enough to hear him say such things; and, deciding that this was not quite all, he said several more of them, about the way Andrew's fair hair caught the spring sunlight, and how his strong shoulders moved at the subtle work.

Andrew turned back to his net with a look of amusement, but not before reaching over to press John's hand.

'I'm glad you think so, Cargill,' he said presently. 'I'll own I am stronger in the shoulders than the knees these days, of course'—he said this with a wry smile—'well, walking with a crutch has its uses... and so do all these odd jobs. There, it's done—good as new.'

These quiet afternoons were always a happy time—and, besides other things, let them have the cottage to themselves for a while. And so, a while later, the same breeze blew in upon them through the open bedroom window, which faced across the vegetable garden and down towards the sea. The white curtains moved gently before it. For some time John had been lying curled up in Andrew's arms, perfectly happy, and for some time there had been no need for speech.

'When I'm away,' he said, presently, 'does it ever bother you that you can't tell anyone about this? About us, I mean. I think of it sometimes—you know, the others all have their wives or sweethearts at home—and they think I don't.'

This did occasionally worry him. Andrew had told him, at the start, that he thought all that about its being a sin was nonsense, and indeed that aspect of the thing had never troubled them much. But he thought sometimes of how the necessary secrecy of it affected Andrew. For him it was only another way to be unlike other people; and, if it was hard to wait in dread, John could only imagine how much more it must be to do so in secret also.

Andrew considered the question for a few moments. 'A little,' he said. 'It certainly doesn't make it any easier, waiting there... I do feel a bit forlorn sometimes.' He was smiling now, however. 'But,' he went on, 'well, there's a lot other people don't know. I don't need them to. It doesn't change anything about what you are to me.' After a while he added, 'Rob knows, did I tell you that? Yes, it was a few weeks ago that he said so, when you were all gone... he understands. He said he was glad I had something to hope for.'

'Really? Well, I suppose he thinks as you do...' Rob Swankie, too old now to go out on the boats himself, kept Andrew company when the fleet were away, as well as at their music, and they were as good friends as ever. And, come to think of it, he had never married, either; perhaps he did understand... 'Andrew,' John continued, 'it does cheer me to know that's how you feel. I hate the thought of you being quite alone.'

Andrew brought one hand up to stroke John's hair. 'I'm not that, dearest,' he said, and kissed him.

*

It was now several years since the end of the war. The absence of those who were gone was still felt—as it would always be felt—and those who had returned had seen a good deal more of the world than they had ever expected to, and found their outlook necessarily changed by it. There were changes at home, too. The old boats with their brown sails, which were not much altered in appearance or capabilities from their counterparts of a hundred years earlier, were increasingly ill-suited to the rigours of the modern fishing industry, and their owners must needs adapt. John, who remembered how useful the addition of a motor had been on the decoy ship, was one of the first to suggest adopting the same improvement, and he himself assisted in fitting the _Caroline_ with a small motor. Despite a certain amount of scepticism from some of the older men, the innovation proved a success.

Andrew was by now become something of an established oddity in the village. The discomfort felt, and shown not always in the most sensitive of ways, by people who had known him before the war, and who had not been sure how to approach the change in him, had long since given way to a kind of quiet acceptance. So he continued to do his bit in the work of the shore and quayside, or at least those parts of it that could be done without too much walking, and seemed content enough with his lot.

It sometimes occurred to John—who was, as it was very natural for him to be, endlessly fascinated by his friend's character, and always sought to understand him better—that anyone looking at Andrew without knowing him well might have thought him terribly patient and long-suffering in his misfortune. But that was not quite right. That first conversation—it had, after all, hardly been a quarrel—after the storm had established something which had only become clearer to John as the years passed: that, in some ways, Andrew was proud of where and what he was. He had told him not to presume to understand his position, as if it were a matter of tactless condescension; he was right that his and John's lives were not the same, and he held himself always a little apart, making it a thing of pride, even while he gave himself entirely to him. It was one of the things John liked best about him—liked best, and admired even more.

The latest of the great dances had been just a few days ago, before John's boat and the others were due to go out again; there had been no particular occasion for it, but the season was proving a good one, and in their general happy mood the village had not needed more of an occasion than this. The merriment went on late into the summer's evening. John had enjoyed himself at the dancing as much as anyone there; but eventually, tiring of it, he had headed over to where the musicians were gathered at the far end of the hall and sought out Andrew, and they had left quietly together.

They walked the little distance back down the lane into the village, lingering a while to admire the sunset which painted the sky over the fields and hills behind them. The creaking sound of a calling corncrake, hidden somewhere in the long flower-strewn grass of the meadow up at the Mains, carried on the breeze over to where they stood.

'You played well tonight,' said John presently. 'Especially well, I mean. You seemed—shining with the sound of it, somehow. You were marvellous.' He always felt a little clumsy trying to compliment Andrew in this way; perhaps it was not something that could adequately be described in words.

Andrew grinned. 'Rob thinks I shouldn't play so many new-fangled things,' he said happily—evidently the criticism was not a very serious one. 'I shall tell him you disagree. Thank you,' he added, with one of his sudden turns into sincerity.

A white owl drifted along the far side of the field they were passing, going silently on broad wings of which the tips just brushed over the nodding heads of the barley.

'"Red sky at night,"' said John, nodding towards the brilliant west. He adjusted the strap of Andrew's fiddle-case, which he carried over one shoulder. 'That promises good fortune for us.'

'So it does,' said Andrew, and then, 'I'll miss you. I always do.'

John put his arm round him, saying nothing. It would be another long trip, but one with, he hoped, good prospects of success. And always there would be the bitterness of parting, and the ever-present quiet dread that the end of it might not be the safe return he had had every time so far; but there was so much of sweetness in this life to go along with the bitterness, and they had both learnt by now to take these things together, and to make the very best of what happiness they had.

In the way of sailors everywhere, the fishermen of the village were always preoccupied with the old omens of good and ill fortune. The sight of a gull alongside the boat was lucky, whereas to bring a piece of pork on board was a thing none of them would ever do. John might read the weather for good signs, as they all did; but he believed he had a better charm of good luck waiting for him on shore than any other. He said so to him now.

'Ah, I know that,' said Andrew, attempting a serious tone, but with his eyes sparkling in the dimming light. 'I know it, Cargill. I'm the finest luck you have—the finest you'll charm... Well, and I shall do my best to keep bringing you good fortune till you're back. But,' he added, 'I think you never had better luck than here.'

They kissed, there in the lane amidst the sunset and the song of the corncrake; and then they returned together to the village.

* * *

Perhaps it was only a hopeful imagination, or perhaps there really was a slight brightening among the grey clouds; in any case, the rain was still falling upon the sea, but John paid it very little attention. Some of his attention was yet needed here, however, and he turned back to the tiller.

At last a shout went up from the bows; Sandy and the others up there had a better view than he did, but he at once craned his neck to see the familiar coastline coming into sight: the cliffs, their colour dark beneath the misty rain; the cottages huddled low above them; and, below the cliffs, the quay. Here, as the fleet drew nearer, he could make out figures, moving about—then seeing the boats, and waving to them, beckoning others to come down to the harbour...

John never had any patience for these last few moments. As he steered the _Caroline_ in towards the shore he scanned the quayside, which was now near enough to see and recognise the people waiting there, and very soon found the one he always looked for first. He was standing above the harbour, a little apart from the main group, and—John was too far away to see much detail, but he was sure of this—looking towards him too, smiling at him in the way he loved best.

**Author's Note:**

> The village here is very loosely modelled on Auchmithie, an old and very scenic fishing village near Arbroath in Angus. Apparently about a third of its population in the mid-nineteenth century were named Cargill, so it seemed representative!
> 
> The stuff about the Navy refitting ships with concealed guns and using them as bait to lure in submarines is all absolutely true—they were known as decoy ships or Q-ships, and played an important role in anti-submarine action in the First World War. I've based the war section of this story on accounts of several real Q-ships and their battles with the submarines.
> 
> Various lines throughout are quoted or paraphrased from the song.


End file.
